I’ve recently come to the realisation that I’m turning into my dad. And it’s not just the frustration I feel when failing to complete basic DIY tasks, or the outrage generated by the parking fees in Croydon town centre, it’s my musical tastes too.
You see, I grew up hating the gruff, crackly blues records that he would play around
the house when we were kids, scarpering to my bedroom and diving for my headphones
to block my ears up with the latest Britpop fad band as he pumped Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy
Waters and Sun House through the hi-
Come last weekend I found myself thumbing through his record collection and asking to borrow those very same albums that I spent my teens avoiding. So it would seem that London quartet Burning Condors have come around at pretty much exactly the right time. The wailing harmonica,
vocals that tremble and howl and the lyrical tale of a women who gone done them wrong
would suggest that they’ve had a similar traipse through the parental vinyl racks,
but don’t be fooled into mistaking this for a simple rehash of the past -
Hell, it was good enough that within the first few spins we invited them to play our Night of Joy gig in Archway, and recommendations don’t come much higher round these parts.
Review by Paul Maps
Listen to ‘Honey Trap’